


Dugout

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:32:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When did you start loving me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dugout

"When did you start loving me?"

Mickey froze, fork halfway between styrofoam container and his mouth. Ian, sitting upright with his legs crossed, was staring down at his own meal, picking at the food with his utensil.

"I—I, um," Mickey trailed off, biting the chunk of pasta off his fork and chewing slowly, like he was buying time. 

Ian gave a half-smile, still looking at his still-untouched food. Mickey wondered for a minute if this was an elaborate scheme to distract Mickey from the fact that Ian had no intention to eat. “I’m not fishing for you to say it,” Ian murmured. “I just wanna know when it happened.” 

Mickey swallowed. The food felt like a boulder in his stomach. “I don’t know.” He saw Ian smile again, all closed lips and downturned eyes. “Will you eat?” Ian tapped the fork against the container thoughtfully, and for a moment Mickey fought with the anger sparking in his chest, urging him to say, “What, you need me to trade ‘I love you’ for you to eat? Is that what it’s going to take? Fine, I love you, you fucking dick,” but he fought it down, instead adding, “Please?”

Ian closed his container and pushed it toward the end of the bed, and Mickey felt like screaming before Ian slid over closer, taking the fork from his hand and digging into Mickey’s food. Ian smiled at him as he chewed, eyes twinkling, genuinely, and Mickey smiled back and brought his hand up to brush strands of Ian’s hair back and forth. Ian swallowed, delivered another bite of Mickey’s pasta into his mouth, and took that one down, too, before leaning over to peck Mickey’s mouth, soft and sweet. “See?” he whispered against Mickey’s lips. “You don’t need to say it.” 

Mickey grabbed at the base of Ian’s skull before he could pull away, pulling him into a deeper kiss, chasing Ian’s warmth until they were both breathless. Mickey leaned his forehead against Ian’s, thumbs rising to rub gentle circles against Ian’s temples. “I’m sorry that I can’t—” 

"You don’t need to," Ian cut him off, hands coming up to trace echoing circles along Mickey’s wrists. "But I just….was it…when I left? Did it happen then?" 

It hurt, Mickey realized, to think Ian thought it was that late. He kept rubbing circles, and shook his head just the slightest bit, just enough for Ian to feel it. 

"Oh." Ian’s voice was quiet, like it had been the wrong answer, even though Mickey couldn’t imagine how the opposite could have been "right," could have made Ian feel better, to think that the only thing that pushed Mickey over the ledge was Ian’s absence, to think that Mickey had fallen in love with a shadow of Ian rather than flesh and bone and blood Ian trembling in his hands. But a second later, Ian spoke again. "I thought, maybe, you know. Something good came out of it." 

Mickey opened his eyes then. Ian still had his screwed shut, his forehead wrinkled, like if he only concentrated hard enough he could wring meaning out of those dark, miserable months. So that was what this whole thing was about.  _No_ , _leaving didn’t cause anything good, it didn’t help anything, accomplish anything, all it did was hurt you, all it did was keep me from you when I could have kept you safe._ Mickey considered saying all that, if only to push the possibility of leaving again as far from Ian’s mind as possible, but he refrained, petting a hand along the back of Ian’s head instead. They didn’t need to revisit that time, didn’t need to feel that pain again. Or maybe they  _did_  need to. Maybe they would have to talk about it, one day. But not today. Mickey wasn’t ready for that yet. 

"I think about it sometimes," Mickey started, making Ian’s eyes pop back open, suddenly alert. "When I started to. I think about it." 

"And?" Ian prompted.

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip until he tasted blood, looked from Ian’s eyes to their food, to the blanket, the wall, anything, before whispering. “Dugout.” 

Ian’s fingers reached out toward his chin, gently pulling his face back to meet his eyes. “That was a good night,” Ian whispered back, smiling. “I’d been thinkin’ all spring about you….”

"Not that night," Mickey interrupted, looking down at their knees, almost touching. "Before. Before I got kicked off the team."

"What?" 

"It was one of the first games of the season. I struck out, and I remember, I kicked dust in my eyes like a dumbass because I threw the bat down. I was pissed. But anyway I walked back into the dugout. And."

"And?" Ian said again, his voice urgent, like he was fighting off disbelief with his bare hands and needed Mickey to hand him the weapons, needed him to say,  _yes, it was that early, yes, it’s been always._

"It was almost dusk, and the sky was orange, and the dugout was dark, but I saw you, and you smiled at me, and I."  _Dying sunlight streamed into the shadowy dugout and hit your hair and you smiled at me like you lit up the entire pitch and I saw you and I loved you._ "Then _._ It was then. _”_

He chanced a look at Ian then, and his eyes were full of tears, but the smile on his face was so bright it looked like it could burn Mickey, if Ian wanted to. “Mickey, I—”  
  
Mickey leaned forward this time, cutting Ian off with his lips. When Mickey pulled back his face was wet from Ian’s tears. And that was all right. He’d take them for him. “It’s okay. You don’t need to say it.” 


End file.
